


Training Grounds

by Pastel_Sugar



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cardverse, Cheesy Innuendos, M/M, Swordfighting, Very Cheesy, shameless flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26320012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastel_Sugar/pseuds/Pastel_Sugar
Summary: The King of Spades challenges his Queen to a sparring match.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 60





	Training Grounds

Metal clashing against metal makes a sharp, satisfying sound as the larger man lays his weight into his shoulder and knocks the knight to the ground. A flurry of dust has the poor boy coughing, the fall likely causing him some minor discomfort to his backside but no real pain. He was a rookie on his first day of training and surely must have been a little better with a sword than what he had just displayed, but that was of no fault of his own; the kid had surely never expected to be pitted against someone much stronger and skilled right out of the gate and was perhaps a little intimidated. 

Or perhaps he was just downright frightened of the idea of hurting the King of Spades. 

Alfred breathes a laugh, hardly winded from the short seconds of sparring, and kindly offers his hand to the young man. The boy hesitates only a moment before letting himself be hauled upright and patted firmly on the back, jostling forward a step at the heavy hand.

“Not bad, Quill, but your stance was off. You lean into your blade while guarding, which is good, but try to have your body turned with your dominant side to your blade. You’re less likely to be knocked off balance with a firmer stance and can lean back away from your opponent if need be.” Alfred’s grin is blinding as the boy retreats to the line of trainees in a bit of a daze. It must have been terribly galling yet awe-inspiring to have your _King_ so casually giving you advice on how to use a weapon.

The tall blond retrieves the abandoned training sword from the dirt, tapping its blade against his boot to knock clinging dust from its surface. Alfred gives the humble shortsword an elegant spin in his right hand, his own weapon of choice (the claymore) resting over his left shoulder. The King holds the lighter weapon out to the congregation of trainees, still grinning ear-to-ear. “Who’s next?”

Awkward silence follows as the knights look to one another and avoid meeting Alfred’s eyes. It is less for a lack of interest (they _had_ been the ones to apply for these positions, afterall) but none were too keen on being the next to go up against their King.

“You are frightening them all, dearest. Imagine what they must be thinking would happen to them if they _actually_ bruised the King of Spades. They may be under the impression that you would have their heads. You should have left the training to Yao,” comments their unanticipated spectator. 

Alfred turns to look at the man sitting off to the side just at the edge of the training grounds where dirt abruptly turns to grass. One of the pristine tables that typically sat under the gazebo in the gardens had been moved here and positioned just so to allow their guest a nice view of the proceedings. Their onlooker is sitting upright on the delicate chair, back straight and poised as he takes a drink of his tea from a delicate porcelain cup. One could describe the man as uptight and prudish in the way he holds himself, but Alfred _knows_ better.

The King huffs, seeing the point being made. “How else will they learn? If they have no problem hitting _me_ with a sword, then they won’t hesitate in a real fight. Besides…” Alfred lowers his claymore, stabbing the tip into the dirt and leaning on its handle as a makeshift cane. He fixes their spectator with a wry grin. “...I don’t think it’s any better to have their Queen present, _ogling_ me, while I practice with them. You’re not very discreet, Arthur.”

To the untrained eye, there was no evident change in the man’s regal appearance at the accusation, but Alfred sees the blotches of pink that spread across his pale face. Arthur, to his credit, does not miss a beat in taking another sip of his tea, turning his nose up dismissively. “I am doing no such thing. I am merely observing to refresh my training in my mind.” 

“ _Sure_ you are. You can’t learn anything from just ’observing’.”

“I am learning plenty, love. Your footwork is still incredibly sloppy and you rely too heavily on your strength alone. An opponent even mildly competent could take one of your swings as an opportunity. If they are fast enough, that would leave your sides _and_ back vulnerable until you have the balance to right yourself. The claymore is terribly inconvenient,” Arthur says lightly. It was criticism but he means no offense and Alfred knows this. 

The King still frowns in thought as he considers and makes a noise of begrudging agreement. Of course, he could not just take the smart remarks without a fight. “Competent, you said…. Like you?”

“I was not exactly referring to myself but, yes, like me.”

“Then why don’t we put that to the test, darling?” 

Arthur stops with his drink halfway to his lips, eyeing his King over the pastel green porcelain. “You want to spar with me?” There is amusement evident in his voice, a humored smile hidden behind teacup.

“I sure do!” With a start, Alfred straightens up from his sword. Without needing to be told, one of their many royal attendants hurriedly retrieves the shortsword from his grasp. Alfred beckons his husband with an enthusiastic hand. “Come on! We haven’t sparred in forever. It’ll be just like old times! I still remember the last time I beat you.” 

He is clearly being baited, but Arthur does not mind as he takes that stalled drink of his tea. “It was _one_ time and I have already told you; I was tired and rusty with a rapier.” The Queen looks to the trainees, abandoned and forgotten in their places where they respectfully had not uttered a word lest they interrupt their regents. He feels uncomfortable with the idea of taking the time out of their training for something so silly, but they certainly do not feel the same. In fact, they all look quite eager. Wide-eyed, youthful faces look between himself and his King almost hopefully. Surely, they must be rather excited to see the skills _both_ of their rulers were rumored to possess. Alfred is widely praised for his strength and surprising agility; Arthur for his wit. 

That is not what convinces him, however. It is not the pleading looks sent his way that are, respectfully, not articulated into actual words. No. It is those few expressions of _concern_. An expression that is, primarily, thrown in his direction. 

A Queen is not quite as respected as a King. Stereotypes and biases painted the role as feminine despite a man being perfectly capable of holding the position. Thus, people often assume that he is dainty and spends his time tending to flowers or knitting. They are not _wrong_ per say, but he is far from some poor damsel in distress that needs to be coddled. It is infuriating, to say the least, to be looked at like he would break if one so much as exhaled air in his direction.

Arthur hums and sets down his teacup down on the table beside himself. “Very well, then.” Ignoring his husband’s horrifically endearing chirp of joy, he stands and removes his half-palm gloves. The motion is deliberately slow and elegant, as a Queen _should_ be. The gloves are left to neatly rest beside his tea. Arthur also removes his coat, the deep purple fabric sliding from his shoulders carefully so as not to wrinkle, and laid over the back of his abandoned chair. 

The dirt is quiet as the Queen, rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, crosses the training grounds to the rack of weapons from which to choose from. Spadian knights are trained in all manner of armaments from the humble sword to the flail. Arthur raises his hand to his chin in thought as he considers what best to use. Call him petty, but he needs something that would guarantee his success. His pride was on the line. 

Arthur’s greatest proficiency weapon was in the bow, but even a dulled arrow could pierce the body and he did not want to hurt his husband in such a way. (Even _if_ Alfred sometimes infuriated him enough to inspire the desire to do so.) That does not leave him very many options… A claymore is far too heavy for him to wield for long, let alone swing with half the dexterity the King possesses. He does not wish to suffer a repeat of his last loss should he falter with the rapier again; Alfred would never let him hear the end of it. A dagger is too small to stand against a claymore. 

“Ah. Here we are.”

The Queen takes hold of his weapon, the length of which extends a good one and a half feet above his full height. End to end its surface is smooth steel with only a leather guard fixed tightly at its center to grasp. It is not a spear as neither end held a blade, but meant to simulate one for trainees to practice without hurting themselves. About an inch or so in diameter, it more resembled a loose pole than any conventional weapon. It is the closest thing to a staff, if not a bit longer than he is used to wielding but nothing he cannot handle.

Arthur rests it over his right shoulder as he turns back round on his heel and returns to the center of the training grounds. Alfred waits with a blinding smile on his beautiful face and Arthur almost feels bad for agreeing to fight in the first place. His husband is far too pretty for bruises. 

Giving the staff a slow spin with both hands, testing its weight, Arthur playfully asks, “I suppose the old rules still stand? First to pin the other wins. Avoid the head and groin. No magic?” He knows the answer. If he were allowed to fight with his _true_ strength, Alfred would not have even _thought_ of asking him to spar.

“Absolutely not. Do you _want_ to kill me?” There is a laugh in Alfred’s voice, fully aware the answer to that question varied on the time and day. He backs a few paces away from his Queen.

Arthur does the same, putting more distance between them. “Only with love, my darling.” 

It is only with the subsequent snickering off to the side that Arthur is reminded they are not alone and this is certainly not a time for shameless flirting. If anything, this is a chance to teach these children a little something about making assumptions. He clears his throat as a weak means of distracting from the infuriating blotches of color that tinge his face. At least it is warm enough that it can be blamed on the heat. 

Laughter is immediately silenced as the staff in his hands suddenly speeds in its slow rotation, so fast it becomes a blur and Arthur expertly pulls it away with his right hand to rest still and strong behind himself. Right foot behind himself and left foot forward, his stance is firm and balanced as any skilled fighter. His left hand is raised forward with palm out and facing his opponent. To anyone else, it would have appeared defensive but, to a Queen, it is a weapon worse than any blade. Of course, it is merely the form of the stance and he has no intention of using his magic.

“Are you ready, Your Highness? I certainly hope this embarrassment will have been worth interrupting my tea time.”

Alfred is still grinning, wide and joyous. He takes far too much pleasure in fighting if only because he has far too much energy. Days and weeks and months behind a desk, drowning in paperwork and politics, did not sit well with a man as active as he. At least, here with the trainees, he can uphold the excuse that he is being productive in educating the next generation of Spadian guard. He does not even take offense to Arthur’s words, knowing anything his husband says is all in good fun. The taunting and jabs were either lacking any real bite or meant to encourage. Maybe even _affectionate_ if the remark was particularly rude.

The King grips his claymore backwards in his right hand, spinning it in circles with twists of his wrist. The action is not as elegant or flashy as Arthur’s, but still impressive considering the weight of the blade itself. This motion is carried into both hands and comes to rest high over Alfred’s right shoulder with dulled tip pointing at his husband. His right hand is high on the hilt, just below the crossguard, while his left pinky grazes the pommel. 

“Whenever you are, My Queen. I’ll be sure to win before your tea gets too cold.”

“That is, if you actually _manage_ to touch me with your blade, love.”

“Oh, I’ll do _more_ than just touch you, darling.”

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter will be a lot of gross flirting while they beat the shit out of each other.  
> It's going to be very suggestive.  
> In case it wasn't clear, Arthur is there because he makes a hobby of watching Alfred practice. He likes watching his eye-candy husband sweaty and swinging around a sword with his big, strong arms.


End file.
